The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK®. Robert Silverberg
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rolled under the bed.
When his heart quit pumping, the blood quit spurting.
A tiny device on the doorjamb, down near the floor, went zzzt! and then there was silence.
CHAPTER V
When Representative Edway Tarnhorst cut off the call that had come from Harry Morgan, he turned around and faced the other man in the room. “Satisfactory?” he said.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said the other. He was a tall, hearty-looking man with a reddish face and a friendly smile. “You said just the right thing, Edway. Just the right thing. You’re pretty smart, you know that? You got what it takes.” He chuckled. “They’ll never figure anything out now.” He waved a hand toward the chair. “Sit down, Edway. Want a drink?”
Tarnhorst sat down and folded his hands. He looked down at them as if he were really interested in the flat, unfaceted diamond, engraved with the Tarnhorst arms, that gleamed on the ring on his finger.
“A little glass of whiskey wouldn’t hurt much, Sam,” he said, looking up from his hands. He smiled. “As you say, there isn’t much to worry about now. If Morgan goes to the police, they’ll give him the same information.”
Sam Fergus handed Tarnhorst a drink. “Damn right. Who’s to know?” He chuckled again and sat down. “That was pretty good. Yes sir, pretty good. Just because he thought that when you voted for the Belt Cities you were on their side, he believed what you said. Hell, I’ve voted on their side when it was the right thing to do. Haven’t I now, Ed? Haven’t I?”
“Sure you have,” said Tarnhorst with an easy smile. “So have a lot of us.”
“Sure we have,” Fergus repeated. His grin was huge. Then it changed to a frown. “I don’t figure them sometimes. Those Belt people are crazy. Why wouldn’t they give us the process for making that cable of theirs? Why?” He looked up at Tarnhorst with a genuinely puzzled look on his face. “I mean, you’d think they thought that the laws of nature were private property or something. They don’t have the right outlook. A man finds out something like that, he ought to give it to the human race, hadn’t he, Edway? How come those Belt people want to keep something like that secret?”
Edway Tarnhorst massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, his eyes closed. “I don’t know, Sam. I really don’t know. Selfish, is all I can say.”
Selfish? he thought. Is it really selfish? Where is the dividing line? How much is a man entitled to keep secret, for his own benefit, and how much should he tell for the public?
He glanced again at the coat of arms carved into the surface of the diamond. A thousand years ago, his ancestors had carved themselves a tiny empire out of middle Europe—a few hundred acres, no more. Enough to keep one family in luxury while the serfs had a bare existence. They had conquered by the sword and ruled by the sword. They had taken all and given nothing.
But had they? The Barons of Tarnhorst had not really lived much better than their serfs had lived. More clothes and more food, perhaps, and a few baubles—diamonds and fine silks and warm furs. But no Baron Tarnhorst had ever allowed his serfs to starve, for that would not be economically sound. And each Baron had been the dispenser of Justice; he had been Law in his land. Without him, there would have been anarchy among the ignorant peasants, since they were certainly not fit to govern themselves a thousand years ago.
Were they any better fit today? Tarnhorst wondered. For a full millennium, men had been trying, by mass education and by mass information, to bring the peasants up to the level of the nobles. Had that plan succeeded? Or had the intelligent ones simply been forced to conform to the actions of the masses? Had the nobles made peasants of themselves instead?
Edway Tarnhorst didn’t honestly know. All he knew was that he saw a new spark of human life, a spark of intelligence, a spark of ability, out in the Belt. He didn’t dare tell anyone—he hardly dared admit it to himself—but he thought those people were better somehow than the common clods of Earth. Those people didn’t think that just because a man could slop color all over an otherwise innocent sheet of canvas, making outré and garish patterns, that that made him an artist. They didn’t think that just because a man could write nonsense and use erratic typography, that that made him a poet. They had other beliefs, too, that Edway Tarnhorst saw only dimly, but he saw them well enough to know that they were better beliefs than the obviously stupid belief that every human being had as much right to respect and dignity as every other, that a man had a right to be respected, that he deserved it. Out there, they thought that a man had a right only to what he earned.
But Edway Tarnhorst was as much a product of his own society as Sam Fergus. He could only behave as he had been taught. Only on occasion—on very special occasion—could his native intelligence override the “common sense” that he had been taught. Only when an emergency arose. But when one did, Edway Tarnhorst, in spite of his environmental upbringing, was equal to the occasion.
Actually, his own mind was never really clear on the subject. He did the best he could with the confusion he had to work with.
“Now we’ve got to be careful, Sam,” he said. “Very careful. We don’t want a war with the Belt Cities.”
Sam Fergus snorted. “They wouldn’t dare. We got ’em outnumbered a thousand to one.”
“Not if they drop a rock on us,” Tarnhorst said quietly.
“They wouldn’t dare,” Fergus repeated.
But both of them could see what would happen to any city on Earth if one of the Belt ships decided to shift the orbit of a good-sized asteroid so that it would strike Earth. A few hundred thousand tons of rock coming in at ten miles per second would be far more devastating than an expensive H-bomb.
“They wouldn’t dare,” Fergus said again.
“Nevertheless,” Tarnhorst said, “in dealings of this kind we are walking very close to the thin edge. We have to watch ourselves.”
CHAPTER VI
Commodore Sir Harry Morgan was herded into a prison cell, given a shove across the smallish room, and allowed to hear the door slam behind him. By the time he regained his balance and turned to face the barred door again, it was locked. The bully-boys who had shoved him in turned away and walked down the corridor. Harry sat down on the floor and relaxed, leaning against the stone wall. There was no furniture of any kind in the cell, not even sanitary plumbing.
“What do I do for a drink of water?” he asked aloud of no one in particular.
“You wait till they bring you your drink,” said a whispery voice a few feet from his head. Morgan realized that someone in the cell next to his was talking. “You get a quart a day—a halfa pint four times a day. Save your voice. Your throat gets awful dry if you talk much.”
“Yeah, it would,” Morgan agreed in the same whisper. “What about sanitation?”
“That’s your worry,” said the voice. “Fella comes by every Wednesday and Saturday with a honey bucket. You clean out your own cell.”
“I thought this place smelled of something other than attar of roses,” Morgan observed. “My nose tells me this is Thursday.”
There was a hoarse, humorless chuckle from the man in the next cell. “’At’s right. The smell of the disinfectant is strongest now. Saturday mornin’ it’ll be different. You catch on fast, buddy.”
“Oh, I’m a whiz,” Morgan agreed. “But I thought the Welfare World took care of its poor, misled criminals better than this.”
Again the chuckle. “You shoulda robbed a bank or killed somebody. Then theyda given you a nice rehabilitation sentence. Regular prison. Room of your own. Something real nice. Like a hotel. But this’s different.”
“Yeah,” Morgan agreed. This was a political prison. This was the place where they put you when they didn’t care what happened to you after the door was locked because there would be no going